


Devastation

by lachingona



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, Graphic Depictions of Dead Bodies, Guns, Stitches, help this story has been locked up forever im letting it free take care of it, i...really like the Purge in theory, mmmm theres a bit of blood/slight gore? in this?, this fandom is so soft and nice and i didnt have to make this but i did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 09:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13701219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachingona/pseuds/lachingona
Summary: He had blindly raced out into America's most dangerous holiday with nothing but the clothes on his back. He had no means of defending himself, nothing to use as a weapon. Miguel wasn't a fighter; he was mere bait for the ravenous beasts that patrolled the night.Coco Purge!Au.





	Devastation

**Author's Note:**

> oh wow first story in the fandom and its a murder au? huh? i dont know man these characters are so innocent and i like seeing them in situations like these.
> 
> enjoy :)

_This is not a test._

_This is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the Annual Purge._

The monotonous tone reverberated throughout Miguel's head, his ears ringing with the echoing sound. A sharp pain snapped through his legs, the muscles overworked from the tedious running. He choked on his breathing,

_"Dante!"_

_Weapons of class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during the Purge. All other weapons are restricted. Government officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity from the Purge and shall not be harmed._

A wretched sob ripped from his throat as he stopped abruptly at a corner, glancing down each alleyway. He tried to drown out the speech, the words digging underneath his skin and burrowing there. Sweat formed over his his brow and he felt it drip down the side of his face.

_Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning, until 7 a.m., when the Purge concludes._

Fear coursed through Miguel's veins. The cold air nipped at his flesh, prickled with adrenaline. He began to pant, eyes flickering to either street, any alley, every door of every building in the city. He chose a path at random and sprinted, ankles lined with sharp pain from the overexertion. His voice quivered as he yelled once more,

_"Dante where are you!"_

_Blessed be our New Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn._

_May God be with you all._

An alarm louder than anything Miguel had ever heard in his entire dozen years of existence followed the announcers voice. He fell into a defeated stop, chest falling up and down with exasperated breaths. He flung himself against the side of a grimy wall only lighted with the faint glow of a street lamp. His palms cupped his ears, trying and failing to drown out the siren. It vibrated through his ribs. It made the bones inside his arms and legs twitch. Tears fell from his wide eyes. 

The siren stretched for the longest time. Miguel grit his teeth so hard they threatened to break from his skull. A silent prayer floated through his head before the unsettling noise died down. The buzz of street lights and soft blows of the wind filled the empty space, so quiet a single pin dropping could disturb the balance. 

Hell seemed to break loose in those few seconds of peace. 

A deafening sound emitted from a building down the corner. Miguel covered his head from reflex as the booming noise echoed. A bomb. He tucked himself deep into a corner, in between a shield of greasy dumpsters and piled trash bags, trying to make himself smaller than he was. Peals of laughter shot from the city, deep guffaws from animalistic men and squealing giggles from the insane. Already, the frightful sounds of screaming and begging invaded his senses. The overpowering scent of mold and blood filled his nostrils, the air thick with the smell of death. Guns went off in stuttering lapses. Fists connecting bodies, the crunch of bones, the haunting screeches from the innocent being slaughtered. Whooping erupted from the air, like a celebration for the night of nothing but sin. 

Miguel's body shook with sobs, eyes scrunched tight as the hot tears fell down his cheeks in fat rivulets. An image of his family came into his mind; his mother, father, aunt, uncle, cousins, sister. The people most dearest to his heart, the ones he may never see again after tonight. 

_"Mama, papa, lo siento."_

A round of bullets showered down the alley and Miguel flinched, wrapping his arms over himself once again in defense. His body shook so violently his muscles began to strain. A stand off seemed to occur, bullets flying and skidding across the wall, one dangerously close to hitting his boot. He curled in in himself, watching men in blood-spattered masks sprint down the streets with a simple goal in their head, guns and bludgeons held tightly in their hands. 

Miguel willed his body to stay still. His nails dug into the fabric of his hoodie, over his arms. Tears stained his face. He breathing grew ragged. The cold numbed his flesh and he couldn't feel the tips of his fingers. Everything hurt, so much physical pain webbing throughout his body. 

A silence swept over the area. Miguel basked in it for a mere moment, waiting, waiting for a sound. Waiting for the inevitable wave of danger. When none came, a sigh escaped his lips. Hesitantly, with as much bravery as his worn out body could muster, he stood. Shakily, on his feet, Miguel used the edge of the dumpster as leverage, holding on steadily to keep himself from crumbling into a pile on the pavement. 

Then, the crunch of shoes. Digging into the jagged street. Startled, Miguel dropped onto his haunches once more. He crouched low, covering his mouth to prevent any sort of sound from fleeing his lips. He bit his tongue as the menacing noise of high-heels clacked against the ground, the drawback click of a gun. His eyes fluttered shut. 

_"What weapons do you have on you?"_

The voice was thick with an accent, latin descent. An older male, not much old, but an adult at the most. It sounded strained, like it took everything in his being to create a sentence. Miguel felt anxiety creep up on him. He hung his head and demanded his voice to speak, " _Please_ , I-I don't have anything."

Another silence. The shuffling of shoes, the whispering of voices. 

"How old are you?" 

Miguel mulled over the question, considering the outcomes of answering honestly or coming out with a lie. He let out a gentle breathe when he found his voice again, "T-Twelve, _señor_." 

Voices bickered back and forth, hushed whispering that only made Miguel's nerves skyrocket. 

"Come out with your hands up, _niño_. _Andale_." A new voice demanded, raspy and feminine, strict authority dripping from every word. Miguel winced from the tone. He bit the inside of his cheek, fingers shaking as they grasped the dumpsters handle once more. He pulled himself to his feet, hands raised above his head in surrender. 

"I told you, I-I don't have anything, I-"

" _Hablas español, chamaco? Como-Como te llamas?"_ The man asked Miguel gently, but firmly. He could make out the faint silhouette of his tall figure, thin, with gangly limbs, leaning against another. The woman beside him was of a shorter stature, but her stance was strong, powerful, as she helped the man stand on his feet to prevent his fall. She held the rifle close to her body, up to eye level with the weapon. The man's posture was much more loose. 

Miguel nodded carefully, arms straining, _"Si_ , _si_ , uhm, it-it's Miguel. _Me llamo Miguel."_ He answered truthfully, knowing fully well how dangerous it was to tell complete strangers his name. Muddled whispers were sent between the two before the woman gave an exasperated grunt and pulled something from the belt around her waist. Miguel flinched violently, fighting with breaking off into a run or standing as still as he could, praying he wouldn't be hurt. He chose the latter and shielded his face, arms covering every part of him they could reach. The fear pinned him to the floor, his legs unable to move. 

A bright light shone over his eyes. A flashlight. He heard the clicking of a gun and a hushed hiss from the man. 

 _"Imelda, calmate_ ," He spat through gritted teeth, hissing as the woman pitched forward and pulled him along a bit violently, causing the man to moan in pain. The woman, Imelda, apologized quietly before flickering the flashlight over Miguel, up and down the planes of his body. Miguel squinted his eyes. She scoffed, unimpressed, and shut the light off. 

"Imelda, _he's a kid."_ The man pleaded quietly. Miguel could see her glare up at him, eyebrows furrowed, soft features scrunched in scrutiny as she narrowed her eyes at him. He fought back with an equally menacing stare. Miguel could feel the tension from meters away.

"You don't have anything on you?" Imelda asked. Miguel shook his head violently. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. 

"No, _señora,_ nothing at all." He replied. It was the absolute truth; Miguel had blindly raced out into America's most dangerous holiday with nothing but the clothes on his back. He had no means of defending himself, nothing to use as a weapon except his hands. Miguel wasn't a fighter, however; he was mere bait for the ravenous beasts that patrolled the night. 

The familiar sound of footsteps and bellowing cheers filled the tense atmosphere. A march of men, men on a mission, their boots falling to the street in a uniform pattern, set the three on edge. The grip on Imelda's gun tightened, as well as the one on the mans arm over her shoulder. The man gave a muffled groan as he tried to stand straight, much to the objection of Imelda, and only managed a staggering slouch,

 _"We have to go."_ He murmured. His eyes met Miguel's, the boys so full of undeniable fear. _"Vamonos."_  

 _"Hector,"_ Imelda's tight voice dripped with venom, but Miguel could hear the faint concern behind it. The man, Hector, cupped the side of her face and Imelda held his hand there with her own. 

"He's a child, Imelda." Hector begged. 

"He could be a _threat."_ Imelda bit back, voice wavering. The sound of people became closer. They smelled smoke, heard the screams of pain and the hollering cheers. Miguel fought against sprinting away again. 

Imelda glances between Miguel and the man fighting to stand. From closer inspection, Miguel could see the large blotch of blood seeping through Hector's clothing, drenching his side and trailing down his legs. His footing staggered as Imelda adjusted him back onto her, a curse flying from her lips. 

"He's twelve, Imelda. No weapons, nada." Hector tried to persuade her. The voices grew closer. The smell of death followed. Imelda tore her stare from Hector to Miguel, watching the fear brimming over his eyes. She noticed the childish wonder in them and the innocence lost from witnessing something as horrid as this. Miguel felt his breathing return in short pants,

 _"Please,_ can-can I come with you? I-I don't- I won't hurt you, I promise-, I-" Imelda cut him off with a sharp hush. Miguel quieted down, a whimper coming up his throat. Imelda's hardened eyes stared him down for a moment before she sighed, giving in, "If you try _anything-"_

"I won't! I promise, I won't!" Miguel felt a swoop of hope overcome him, relieved they wouldn't leave him for dead. Hector released a contained breath before trying to steady himself on his shaking legs, beckoning Miguel. 

"Come on. We have to go, _apurate."_ Hector urged as Imelda scolded him for stretching his wound. Miguel charged forward to the two, not missing the white-knuckled grip Imelda had on her gun. From close up, they appeared friendly, despite the streaks of blood lining their clothes and skin. Quickly, Miguel followed them down the empty streets. Imelda stumbled with Hector clinging to her back and she ushered the young boy over. 

"Hold his other side," Imelda said quietly. Hector attempted to walk on his own instead, even as Miguel gripped the sleeve of his arm. 

"No, no, _estoy bien,"_ Hector tried but Imelda furrowed her brows at him, insistent. 

"You are in no position to demand anything like that, do you understand?" 

Hector's eyes fluttered before he sighed in defeat, letting Miguel crowd underneath his arm to hook it over his own shoulder. It wasn't much but it was enough to keep Hector moving. 

The voices grew far and faint until they were no more. The cold air whipped at Miguel's cheeks as they ran. His lungs hurt, keeping up with adults faster than he was, but he persevered through. They rounded several corners, down bare streets and locked stores. The warmth of blood wet his clothing, the entirety of his side caked in it now. A corpse presented itself once or twice, Miguel's stomach churning when he had to jump over a man who's bottom half was missing and a woman who hung on the entrance of a library by a cross, slits in her stomach and entrails peeking out. Miguel held down his vomit. 

Eventually, they came upon a white van, bulky and enormous enough to fit a family. Imelda headed up behind it, to the double doors in the back, and procured a series of rhythmic knocks to the doors, leaving Miguel to help Hector by himself for a brief moment. A few minutes passed before they were pulled open and a woman presented herself to them with wide eyes and a deep glare.

 _"What took you so long?"_ She commanded, stray hairs from her bun hanging down to frame her face. She gasped when her eyes fell on Hector's state. The two bandoliers swung heavily over her thin, tall frame as she helped Imelda in and assisted Hector inside by his torn jacket, careful of his wounds. Miguel attempted to climb inside only to have the mysterious woman stop him, standing in front of the entry with a scowl. 

 _"¿Y_ _este?"_ She asked, brows furrowed. Miguel swallowed. Hector rested his palm on her forearm, Imelda pulling at his arm to keep his wound from expanding. "He's with us, Victoria, _no te procupes."_  

Victoria gave Miguel a once-over before reluctantly letting him in, her eyes following his every move. The violent shut of the doors made him flinch and Victoria locked them with a brisk click. Looking around, Miguel took in the abundant weapons strayed everywhere, placed meticulously on the walls and floor, knifes adorning a mat just near the corner and even grenades carefully fastened across. His insides twisted at the sight. 

"Sit." Imelda said sharply, snapping her fingers and pointing to a seat closest to the drivers side, which seemed to be blocked by a wall of fence, hiding the drivers. Miguel stiffly sank onto the seat, quiet and obedient. He felt the stare of another on him, switching his eyes up to catch that of a woman with a worried pout and cupid bow lips pulled in a frown. 

 _"Rosita, ayudame,"_ Imelda demanded, pulling the woman away from her and Miguel's stare down towards Hector's withering body. Rosita jumped up to help, grabbing a tight hold of Hector's thin arm to gently lay him on the floor. His eyes shut, brows furrowed in obvious discomfort. Imelda gave him quick hushes of encouragement and pulled a knife from the satchel on her waist,

 _"Calmado, si? Aqui te tenmos, vas a_ _estar bien,"_ Imelda whispers, though more to herself than the man before her. The thin woman from earlier, Victoria, sat across from Miguel with her eyes trained out the window. Her gaze was intense, almost searching. She kept out of the way of the scene from below. 

Hector let out a pained whine when Imelda used the knife to cut away the shredded remains of his shirt. Rosita coos at him softly, demanding quiet things like,  _"por favor_ _hector, don't move"_ and, _"quedate quieto."_  

"That was my favorite shirt." Hector mumbled as Rosita kneeled behind him to lift his upper body and rest him atop her. Imelda scoffs, her hands shaking as she tries to slip his arms out of the sleeves only to have them caught and, in blind frustration, slices away at them too. The blade drops to the floor with a clatter. She bunches up the shirt and presses it to the side where the blood seems to be endless. _"Don't make jokes right now, Hector."_

"Imelda, you need to relax," Rosita's pitched voice said, brows furrowed. She rearranged Hector's bare torso over her thighs, turning him to his left to expose the large gash on the flesh of his waist. Hector grit his teeth. 

"It's just a nick, _querida,_ I'll be fine." He managed in a voice too tired and raspy. Imelda fished around the shelves plastered to the wall to pull out a thick, white box. Popping it open, she produced gauze and alcohol, pulling at them too quickly, too impatiently. It fell from her hands and spilled to the floor before she immediately snatched it again. They couldn't waste any of their resources for the night. 

"Imelda-" 

 _"I know."_ She interrupted, her voice thick with sobs ready to escape. Miguel stiffened from hearing the raw, broken sadness in her tone. _"Ya_ se, okay? _Ya se, ya se."_  

Thick tears fell from her eyes. She wiped at them furiously, only to smear blood over her face and hair. Hector sighed lowly and reached his hand to hold hers, trembling in his light grip. Rosita ushered Victoria from her perch at the window, pulling her away and indicates towards Hector's limp form and Imelda's near-panic attack state. 

Victoria clicks her tongue, "Imelda, let me-" 

"No, _no,_ I can do it, just get me the bandages-" 

 _"Imelda,"_ Hector's voice was stern. With enough strength, he managed to reach up at cup her neck, mixing blood and tears on her perfect skin. Imelda leans into the touch, bottom lip wobbling. "It's only a graze. I'll be fine."

"Hold him here, Imelda, we can do the rest." Rosita suggested. Gently, Imelda nodded and gave in to replace Rosita's position, holding Hector's upper half in her arms and lap, curling down to burry her face in his matted hair. Rosita took the kit from the floor and popped it open, revealing a series of medical supplies that smelled of nothing but hospital. 

 _"You,"_ Victoria snapped at Miguel, who broke away from the scene unfolding in front of him. "Keep watch." She tilted her head towards the window. Miguel nodded and focused entirely on anything, anything at all, happening outside. 

"Stitches?" Rosita asked, pulling a thick white wrap and gauze from the box. The shirt was completely soaked through, enough that it squelched when pressed. Victoria removed it to examine the wound, deep but not life-threatening. 

"A few, maybe. Or he could bleed out. Luckily there's no remnants of anything in it." Victoria took the thread and needle from Rosita's hands, quick to sterilize them as Rosita drenched a cloth in alcohol. She glanced at Hector sympathetically. 

"Hold still," She warned as she pressed it to his side. Hector let out a series of short hisses, twisting his body from the burning pain. Imelda held him tight, letting his vice grip on her hand tighten. 

"Don't move, _mi vida,_ don't move," Imelda chastised. Her stare turned venomous, " _Los voy a matar_ , I swear I'll kill them." She spat into his hairline, the words dripping with promise. Hector, even through his ordeal, laughed, the action causing a tingle of pain up his spine. 

 _"Amor,_ even when I'm dying you still find a way to your anger." He smiled crookedly, wincing as Rosita applied more pressure on the wound. 

Imelda glared at him, "Don't say that, _pendejo."_ She smacked at his shoulder, only making Hector laugh again at her attempts to scold him, as if he were a child being told off. " _Eres inutil, cabron, un menso, un pinche animal que no entiende-"_

"Imeldaaa," Rosita tuts, stretching the a, prompting Imelda to stop her cursing. She sighs deeply, returning to simply holding Hector, who blows her a teasing kiss. 

 _"Oye,"_ Victoria piped up, tools ready in her hands, "I'm going to start. You can't move, Hector, _por favor,_ stay still." 

 _"Ay mija,"_ Hector scoffed with a wave of his hand, "I got it. Don't mind me, just start." 

"We're sitting ducks right now, but hopefully his won't take long, _ya?"_ Victoria added as the pinched the open skin of Hector gash. He held down a hum of pain, throat vibrating. Rosita held a hand flat over his stomach and began to pinch together the skin where Victoria needed to pierce. Hector held his breath once the needle breached and released it as it when it popped through. 

The van was soon filled with nothing but the occasional grunts of discomfort from Hector and the comforting words of Imelda. Miguel hadn't torn his eyes away from the window; if there was one thing that made him squeamish, it was open wounds, blood, and gore. No matter how small the injury. Victoria worked quietly and efficiently, her sewing technique perfected after years of practice. It didn't take long; the fear of hurting Hector was the only factor that truly made her weary. So the stitches were soon finished in a matter of twenty or more minutes. 

"He's done." Victoria announced, clipping the threads and setting them. Rosita cleaned the excess blood, blotting them with cotton and sponge. Another layer of alcohol swept over the new stitch and Hector, this time, only hissed. With efficient precision, Rosita unwinded the gauze and began to wrap it around Hectors torso, setting the pad tight on his gash. Finally, Imelda breathed correctly. 

 _"Por dios,_ don't scare me like that again." Imelda says quietly, sitting back comfortably now that the worst was over. Rosita patted down the bandages and secured them tight on his waist, done with a tired huff. 

Hector let out an airy chuckle, leaning most of his weight on Imelda and relaxed into her embrace. _"Amor,_ I couldn't scare you if I tried."

Imelda scowled at him, _"Callate, baboso."_ She glanced over his body, then around the car. "Are we ready?"

 _"Si."_ Hector nodded, prompting Imelda to give him yet another deep glare. 

 _"You_ made us waste time Hector." Imelda accused. He simply burrowed his face in the crook of her neck, high on adrenaline and dizzy from blood loss and pain to come to terms with anything happening before him. He chuckled against her ear, "Ay, am I responsible for getting shot?" 

"Who shot you?" Victoria inquired with narrowed eyes, rearranging the sash of bullets over her chest and shoulders. Hector waved his hand about. 

"Some _mamones_ caught us slipping down a street, shot went off, got me right here." He signaled at the wraps over his body. 

Victoria scoffed indignantly, _"Cabrones._ You didn't get them back?" 

"They're not who we're here for." Imelda shook her head, squeezing Hector's hand. "We don't waste bullets on the streets. We don't need them."

"I needed my waist though, half of it's missing now." Hector groaned, cupping the gauze. _"Maldita sea, me duele."_  

 _"No llores, pujiento,"_ Imelda says coldly. Hector wails dramatically, faux tears brimming over his eyes, _"Ay mi angelita,_ you wound me!"

Victoria rolled her eyes at the two and Rosita merely giggled before drying her hands on a set cloth, cleaning the traces of blood on her fingers. She delivered quick wraps to the wall separating them with the driver, the same ones Imelda did on the doors outside. The van soon began to move and Miguel let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, grateful for the lightened atmosphere. 

As the car swerved down a series of turns, Miguel let himself relax. He felt safer in here than he ever did out there. Though, we was on edge from the strangers he had so blindingly accepted help from. His eyes grazed over the man whom convinced the others to let him in, from his raven locks to his scruffy facial hair to his large nose and stick thin limbs. Hector, with eyes closed, opened them to catch Miguel staring. The boy quickly looked away. 

 _"Oye, chamaco,"_ Hector spoke up and sat straight, mindful of his gash, _"¿Aver, que te_ _pasa?_ What's up with you?" 

Miguel felt a frown pull at his lips, "Uhm, _disculpe?"_  

"The purge. Why were you out there? Twelve years old, can barely defend yourself, and you're out on the most dangerous night of the year?" Hector said with a raised brow, truly not believing a child would be so careless. 

Miguel felt their eyes on him, drilling holes through his skull. He shifted uncomfortably, "I-" He recalled the events from earlier. His family had locked up the house and secured the area. Her remembered the fear on his cousin's faces when Enrique and Tio Berto armed themselves with rifles and knives, the family trusting the two to keep them all safe. Miguel had found a faulty lock and slipped out, out for a reason...

 _"Dante!"_  

The piercing gasp made the group jump. Victoria startled and seized Miguel's shoulder, bruising tight. She held a finger to her lips and shushed him, the hiss of a snake. _"No grites."_  

Miguel weakly tried to escape her hold as tears began to form over his eyes once more, "Dante, _it was Dante!"_  

"Who's Dante?" Hector asked in a maddened tone. 

Miguel shook himself free from Victoria, rubbing the sore area, "My dog, Dante, he-he got out, he wasn't in the house, he-" Miguel broke off in a shaky breath, lips trembling. He clasped handfuls of his hair. 

Rosita scrambled forward to kneel in front of the young boy. She gently held his wrists and pulled them away from his scalp, his fingers closing in on empty air, on something that was there before. Her voice is soft when she speaks, _"¿Mijo, que paso?_ Breathe now, come on, _respira."_  

Miguel attempted to regulate his breathing and managed to come down to deep, winded breaths that left him dizzy. His chest heaved as he found his words, "D-Dante, I couldn't find hi-him." He stuttered, "I thought he might have-have gotten out. It was only twenty minutes before the alarm, _I-_ _I thought I could make it."_

It was gut-wrenching to hear such torment from a child, such loss of faith that left nothing but disappointment. Rosita felt her stomach turn as the boy sobbed and pulled him into a comforting hug, trying so desperately to ease his pain. 

Imelda thought the worst occured; surely on a night like this, an animal with no defense would be an easy target for the criminals outside. She sighed through her nose, _"Niño,_ where do you live?" 

Miguel looked up at her with dewy eyes, sniffling, "What?" 

"Where do you live?" Imelda repeated. "We need to get you home." 

Miguel shook his head and rubbed at his raw cheeks, "No, _no, por favor,_ you have to help me find Dante!"

Imelda felt a vein twitch in her forehead and Hector's palm rested atop her shoulder to calm her. Despite her harsh exterior, Imelda held children close to her heart. She just wanted to return the boy home and away from the carnage. Miguel lowered his head, Rosita rubbing his arms, up and down, in soft movements to appease his anxiety. 

 _"Mira,_ Miguel," Imelda began, "You can't be out here. We can't keep you out here and we can't help you. There's seven hours until morning; you will return home, no more escaping. Understood?" 

Hector slipped his fingers over Imelda's wrist, thumb caressing the bone there, "Imelda-" 

"She's right; we can only help you go home." Victoria piped up, ignoring Hector's attempt to speak. Her eyes never quite left the window as scanned the area outside. Her body was tense. "Its dangerous. If you're lucky, the dog might have found somewhere safe. You won't know until morning." 

Miguel stared between the two women. His eyes hurt from crying, his tongue dry from thirst; his body grew so weary in those few moments he thought gravely on the idea of simply going back to his family. 

"I've had Dante since I was little, I found him in the streets-"

"Then he knows where he's going. A street dog will follow you forever, Miguel, he'll return to you." Rosita said, cheerfully. All in all, She wasn't so sure if the poor creature was safe, but it may have a chance if it's familiar with its surroundings. Besides, Miguel needed the reassurance. 

Hector seems to slowly nod in agreement, puffing his cheeks before blowing out the air filling them, "They're right Miguel. Your safety is most important. Your family's probably worried sick." 

Miguel felt shame burn in his cheeks. His mother and father are more than likely blowing their lungs out over him. What if they went out searching for him? What if they're in the streets, with no protection or skills to stop the murderers in the city from taking whatever they could from them? 

The more Miguel swelled on that idea, the more terrified he grew. A horrified look crossed his face as he stated up, directly at Hector. "I have to go home."

Imelda sighed in relief. Victoria's tense muscles seemed to ease. Rosita smiled softly at Miguel. Hector lay back against the wall of the car, his hands still clasping Imelda's and his side still numb. 

"Good choice, _chamaco._ Now, where do you live?" 

 

**Author's Note:**

> wow! im sorry
> 
> i actually have a few headcannons for this au that i didnt add to the story bc plot but...
> 
> \- ernesto was childhood friends with imelda and hector and this night corrupted him and he murdered coco when she was about five? six? imelda and hector have been hunting him ever since
> 
> \- ernestos now a notorious leader during the Purge and he's absolutely terrifying with no mercy or purity in him
> 
> \- rosita and victoria arent related to hector and imelda, but have their own family together. julio and rosita are siblings who raised their niece, victoria, together
> 
> \- julio was killed during a purge night
> 
> \- yes, oscar and felipe are the drivers here
> 
> \- dante(maybe) is okay
> 
> anyways thanks for reading!? hope u enjoyed


End file.
